You’ve just arrived in a swampy, dim town. As you look around, your gaze is met with shacks and cabins. It smells of rotted wood and wet moss. You duck and step into a tattered tent, illuminated by a series of candles suspended in the air. At the back of the tent, an old hag raises her head, “What brings you to this dingy town? she begins, then pauses to study your face—”Ah, it’s you. I’ve been expecting you. Sit,” she gestures at a cushion, “Tell me your story.”
Thandor steps forward, his piercing blue eyes meeting the old hag’s gaze with a mixture of curiosity and wariness. He slowly takes a seat on the cushion, his movements fluid and graceful despite the small, confined space.
"I am Thandor of the Elven Woodlands," he begins, his voice calm and steady. "I have traveled far, through forests and mountains, seeking knowledge and answers. The winds whispered of this place, of you. They said you could help me uncover the secrets hidden within these swamps."
He pauses, scanning the dimly lit tent, the flickering candles casting eerie shadows on the walls. "But tell me, wise one, how is it that you knew I would come? What is it that you see in my face?"
